


Exposure

by vetiverbitters



Series: The Saint and the Dragon [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Elevators, M/M, Model AU, Model!Thranduil, Otp: Barrel of Laughs, Photographer!Bard, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:27:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3383261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverbitters/pseuds/vetiverbitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to Aperture.</p><p>Bard arrives to the hotel to honor Thranduil's request, and to cash in on the promise of drinks. He's fairly sure, however, there's more than that bringing him there. There is only one way to find out if there's something else at play, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exposure

**Author's Note:**

> 'Tis booze + ust o'clock at the Doriath.  
> Enjoy these two, y'all -- and holla if you spot typos or the like because I didn't beta this damned thing.

Bard hadn't given much thought to the strange looks he'd gotten at the Comme des Garçons shoot last year: lingering glances turned furtive when he caught them, often accompanied by hushed whispers and the occasional raised eyebrow. The comments had been a little harder to avoid, though -- they were all dipped in a thin layer of incredulity that, at the time, didn't really make much sense.

_"Wow, I've never seen him laugh before."_

_"You're a miracle worker!"_

_"I didn't even know he knew how to smile..."_

_"You must tell some amazing jokes, huh...."_

The context of those looks and words had become much more obvious once he had started paying attention to what the industry had to say about the renowned Thranduil Telerian: guarded, haughty, highly professional, petulant, uptight, aloof, polite but wooden, beautiful but intimidating. And according to Thorin Oakenshield's assessment of the man during the CdG runway show later that month, 'pretentious without saying a bloody word.'

Bard could not say that he didn't see why people thought of Thranduil in such terms, but he couldn't agree with that judgment either. Whenever he encountered Thranduil at work, runway functions, or the odd party, the man was openly gracious with him, without feeling smarmy or pretentious. That the blond model didn't act that way with everyone was obvious, but when these people let their assumptions color their interactions with Thranduil, it wasn't hard to imagine the man would react to that kind of treatment as he did. The model had no love for incompetence and disingenuous pleasantries, Bard had noticed quickly, but he smiled easily and laughed heartily if he was treated fairly. That was simple enough to understand -- at least for Bard, anyway.

Fashion photography was only a niche Bard had come into in the last four years, and given he'd made a solid career of travel and nature photography, rumors about his subjects' personalities had no bearing on his work. Perhaps that was why Thranduil seemed to like him: he brought no preconceived notions to his interactions with the people he worked with, and strived to be personable and patient in order to foster a productive environment. Bard often found himself reasoning that way whenever the topic of working with 'difficult' people came up. 

If growing up gay in a small town had instilled anything in him, it was to avoid assumptions at all costs. That simple principle had kept him safe when he was younger, then opened countless doors of opportunity in later years. Kept them open, too.

Thranduil's behavior earlier in the day did not change his general outlook on the man, but it did force the photographer to make room for considerations he hadn't seen fit to make before, when he'd been in a committed relationship and he had gotten used to ignoring or politely deflecting advances. Thranduil had been flirting today, brazenly so. Bard could discard their interactions at the beginning of the shoot as pleasant familiarity -- or growing camaraderie, even -- for the sake of giving Thranduil the benefit of the doubt, but the perfumed card with his personal mobile, really? Or wanting to meet to see the photographs when his agent Haldir would receive copies of the shots as early as the next two days? And the looks... 

Bard knew those looks -- he had leveled them at enough men at bars, clubs, and faraway places to be unaware of their meaning. Heaven alone knew how many blokes he'd eaten alive with his eyes during his days as a fine arts student enjoying the sexual freedom that London afforded him. He had also felt those intense gazes many a time, sometimes like water, sometimes like wind on his skin, and sometimes like a firestorm. There had been heat in Thranduil's eyes as they stared down his own…

Studying the files on his laptop screen only served to derail his concentration. Some of the last shots would have to be discarded since Thranduil's concentration seemed to have faltered, but he could not bring himself to chuck them. The pronounced arch of the blond's spine, a fleeting peek of discomfort reflected in his features, the stiffness tensing his calves and forearms -- the campaign directors had already rejected those shots for being weak and inconsistent with the Mirkwood theme, but Thranduil looked stunning, regardless. The lapses in those poses left him far more naked than the absence of clothes. 

It couldn’t possibly be professional to be sitting on his hotel bed, attempting to photoshop the modesty thongs from the shots while his mind continued to relive and decipher Thranduil's bold eyes trailing down the front of his body just before he left the warehouse. Reflexively, Bard's own eyes focused on the obscured cradle at the apex of Thranduil's strong thighs on the screen, rooted to the spot as storm clouds gathered at the back of his mind.

The little paper strip sat next to his mobile on the nightstand, untouched and pristine still, tempting him for the past hour, though to call it temptation presupposed he could regret giving in, but he wasn't fragile and he wasn't tied down to anyone anymore. Temptation did not always necessitate subsequent regrets. 

The blond was witty, driven, economical in his interactions but generous with his honesty, confident... And the downright otherworldly looks didn't hurt his chances one bit.  _Don't close yourself off and go with it_ , Ylenna would say if he were to talk to her now;  _be careful_ , Girion would have said, if he still were around.

A couple of drinks and some poorly disguised ogling couldn't hurt, right? 

6:43 P.M., the taskbar of his Mac read. Given that he had squandered a good chunk of time he could have used to make more progress, Bard opened up his e-mail program and forwarded his editor the project files, along with a message to please review the shots and to retouch as needed before the photos were passed on to Mirkwood reps tomorrow afternoon. Percy could get it done much faster than he could, not to mention he had a much better computer setup accessible than Bard did at the moment. Percy was also, in all likelihood, not distracted by the way the lighting in the photos drew attention to the flat, taut plain of Thranduil's abdomen, or the wicked ivory of his long neck visible between twin falls of nearly-white hair. 

He sent the email with high priority and shut the lid of his laptop, leaning back into the headboard of the bed for a long moment. He should call Percy now and let him know he had work to do, then call a cab to drive him to the Doriath since it was too damned cold to brave the train. He would have rented a car when he first arrived to the city, but the whole shoot-going-tits-up thing hadn't exactly left time for that. 

After a brief conversation with Percy to confirm the receipt of the files, then with the cab company to schedule a pick-up within the next thirty minutes, Bard reached for the slip on his nightstand and entered Thranduil's number while he contemplated what to write in a text message. He couldn't bring himself to throw the paper bit away, even though he no longer needed it. He placed it back on the nightstand and brought his hand close to his nose. The heady scent of Mirkwood clung to his fingertips.

That scent was going to haunt his dreams for a while.

**[to 020-7946-0931; 18:59] How did your fitting go? It's Bard, by the way.**

The dark-haired man tossed the phone onto the bed and headed for the shower, shedding his clothes in his wake before entering the frosted glass cubicle.

* * *

 

"'Las, what do you mean you're only back for three weeks and then shipping out to fucking Cambodia? I'm not even going to be in town half of that time!" Thranduil complained to the empty bathroom as he straightened his hair in front of the mirror. His mobile rested next to the ornate soap dispenser on the sink. 

"Stop being so dramatic, Thran! We're doing important work over there, and you know it," Legolas' voice flooded the chamber, bouncing his soft chuckle off the marble tiles. It was a poor substitute of the real thing, but it was better than nothing. His voice on the phone meant he was well, however far he was.

"I'm not being dramatic," the blond countered with feigned affront, "I just miss you, you obtuse little bleeder. The monkeys won't be cross with you for coming home for a decent length of time..."

"No, they'll just be run out of their habitats and poache--"

"Oh, just  _stop_ ," Thranduil groaned, trying not to let the sweet ache of his brother's unwavering commitment overwhelm his heart. "Leave it to bloody Aragorn to save the monkeys and come home already, will you? Broadchurch keeps piling up on the recorder and I can't watch it with you all the way over there in the bush..."

He could listen to Legolas laugh all day, he really could.

"I've got to go, Thran. Talk to you later -- say hullo to Tauriel and Mum, yeah? I love you, be good!"

" _You_  be good, love you too. If you catch some horrible disease I'll be so cross with you, I swear..."

After another peal of deep laughter, the connection severed and plunged the bathroom into silence. Soon enough, his flat would be awash in the sounds of his brother's tales of apes and trees, of dangers and funny anecdotes; of his breath and his warmth. The thought burned fiercely in the forefront of his mind until the buzz of two unread text messages interrupted the quiet.

**[19:07] at the airport now. flights not grounded, so yay. any word from st gorgeous?**

**[from 020-8105-1360; 18:59] How did your fitting go? It's Bard, by the way.**

Ah, finally. A slow swipe of tongue over his lips wiped away his smile, leaving in place something far more predatory that brought back the gentle thrum of warmth in his middle.

**[19:12] He answered my 'prayer' a couple of mins. ago. Asked me how the fitting went, but I am an excellent friend, so I'm replying to you first. Safe travels & stash Kili in the overhead bin. Don't pay full price for a half occupied seat. Text me when you land.**

Oh, if he could only see Kili's face right now. That man was probably cursing while his name while his girlfriend tried not to laugh herself hoarse.

**[to 020-8105-1360; 19:15] Fitting went well, despite being stuck with a pin at some point. A plague on that tailor's house.**

**[from 020-8105-1360;19:18] Have courage, man. Tis probably just a scratch. :P**

The model's own laughter burst from his lips unbidden, leaving his chest out of breath but thrilling with pleasure all the same. 

**[to 020-8105-1360; 19:19] 'Tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, so I suppose the alcohol will soothe the wound. Ha. We're still on for that, yes?**

**[from 020-8105-1360; 19:23] Aye, cab's five minutes out from my hotel. See you soon. Don't tackle the bar without me!**

**[to 020-8105-1360; 19:25] No promises there. Hurry and you may get the dregs.**

Somewhere in between his exchange with Bard, Tauriel had texted back a string of nonsense letters and emoji, but the blond did not bother with a reply to the keyboard smash. He still had to find a top to wear, then go down to the bar to sneak in a drink before the photographer arrived. It had been a long, stressful day, after all, and he could use a couple of minutes of alone time with a shot of good mezcal.

* * *

 The first shot of mezcal had turned into two shortly after Thranduil had arrived to the bar: one to wash down the day, and the second to loosen the treacherous bend of his spine that had continued to deepen throughout the afternoon. Thoughts of Bard's long fingers and mouth had pressed down on him long after the shoot, building up tension that neither the hot shower nor the conversation with his brother had relieved. _Strung tight like a bow_ , his mind continued to supply unhelpfully, but opting for a third shot seemed like a poor idea if he wanted to keep his wits about him when Bard arrived.

There'd be time for something stronger soon enough, anyway.

The mounted television screen to the far right of the bar was set to the local weather on mute while soft jazz played over the speakers. The forecast so far indicated the next two days would be blessedly free of snow, but temperatures would remain in the negative numbers for the most part, and up in the teens at best. He cared little for the weather at this juncture; business here was concluded and he'd be on his way home to London two days from now. Bored, Thranduil plucked his phone from the left pocket of his charcoal cardigan and checked his mobile for something to look at. There was an email from Haldir, letting him know of changes to next week's schedule, as well as one forwarded email with his flight confirmation for his flight to Los Angeles two and a half weeks henceforth. Maybe he could convince Legolas to fly out with him, so they could enjoy better weather and more time together between his engagements.

"Did you leave me anything?"

There went his spine again, bowing and bending under muscle and sinew as the blond lifted his head to acknowledge his guest's presence. His lips had parted with the beginning of a witty remark, but the black knit cap on Bard's head made quick work of stopping his thought dead in its track. With his dark brown curls pulled back and tucked inside the woolen hat, the angles of his face became sharper in the golden light of the bar, and the attractive laugh lines around his eyes all the more pronounced. "I'm certain the bartender can put something together for you with whatever is left," Thranduil finally replied after a stunned moment, recovering with a slow, sly half-smile and the rise of an eyebrow. Bard's lips barely moved, but the raspy baritone of his chuckle conveyed the man's amusement just as well. As Bard slid out of his overcoat and unwound the scarf from around his neck, the barkeep greeted the photographer and rattled off the kinds of scotch available. "I'll have the Macallan, neat, please." 

"That's some choice for a saint," Thranduil teased and gestured for another of those to the the barkeep, who promptly shuffled away from them to fulfill the order. "It's my favorite," Bard replied with an easy smile, teeth peeking from between pink, wind-chapped lips. "Got a bottle of the 18 for Christmas a couple of years back, been hooked ever since." The photographer's eyes followed a scattered path in his study of the model, taking in the slow stroke of the blond's fingers over the polished wood of the bar counter, then jumping to the hollow of his throat, partly obscured by the collar of the deep plum dress shirt Thranduil wore underneath his cardigan. What his eyes could not see under the clothes, his mind could recall in great detail from earlier.

"I'm partial to Glenfiddich myself," Thranduil offered in the spirit of reciprocation, drinking in Bard's attention with abandon. "In particular, the 18, curiously enough. It was the only thing in my father's liquor cabinet that didn't taste revolting to my teenage palate, or that wasn't wine." The admission drew a startled laugh from Bard, who gladly reached for a glass as soon as their drinks were put down. Thranduil watched the photographer's hand retreat and hold the glass under his nose, then picked up his own, mirroring the gesture.

Leather and honey, with a woodsy note hidden under the berries and sherry. Interesting bouquet.

"Don't like wine?" the dark-haired man asked before tipping the glass against his lips for a sip. Thranduil watched the amber liquid flow thickly past the other man's lips, syrupy and fragrant. "I do, but I'd lost interest in it long before I felt any desire to experiment with drunkenness." Thranduil sipped from his own glass, a low sound issuing from him as the taste of the scotch unfolded on his tongue, smooth and almost oily in feel; it coated his mouth and clung to his lips, warming his palate with a taste of smoke and figs. This wasn't unlike his beloved Glenfiddich in composition, but it lingered more intensely, sweeter. The blond wanted to answer, but his tongue continued to run along the inside of his mouth, chasing the last of the smoke and sherry.

"Didn't like it?" Bard's amusement deepened those lovely laugh lines and the dimples that framed the corners of his mouth. What would they taste like if he licked each line, what would that mirth taste like? Would the taste of Bard cling to his mouth as thickly as the whisky had? Deep in his belly, the simmer of arousal became a twinge, tightening the growing knot at the base of his spine. The model sipped again and licked at his lips, the embers under his skin burning with the wicked pleasure of Bard's mouth imitating his own. If he actually managed to sit through another scotch without reaching for the brunet, perhaps he should apply for sainthood instead.

"It feels like a mouthful of syrup, but it's very tasty and smooth. I may have another after this one." 

"Good," Bard raised his glass in a toasting gesture and sipped again, resting an elbow on the counter to lean in closer. Proximity lowered his voice to a thrum of sound somewhere above a murmur. "So how come you got tired of wine?" 

Good god, was the alcohol making his head buzz already, or was the pepper and vetiver of Bard's cologne that heady? 

"My father owned a vineyard for many years," Thranduil uttered carefully, trying to shape the unwieldy intimacy of his words to his mouth. They flowed easily enough with Bard's genuine prompting, but the strangeness of talking about his personal life still weighed down his tongue somewhat. "Growing up, wine was something you drank with your meal, rather than something you sat down with and got drunk off. The other liquor resided in my father's study in a locked cabinet, so I suppose there was more mystique to that than grabbing a bottle of something your mother had little qualms about you having."

Watching Bard watch him with rapt attention instead of the thirst of someone looking for a juicy rumor dissolved what was left of his apprehension. It felt... good to share and be listened to like Tauriel listened, like Legolas and Haldir did. Safe, even. Thranduil deepened his breaths to keep his rising heartbeat in check.

"Lucky you," the other snickered and looked down at his scotch, halfway gone already but savored just as much as his mind enjoyed the unexpected glimpse into the man's life. "Mum would give me the side eye if I even so much as mentioned going out for a pint with my mates when I was old enough to go. Too many tanked, hot-headed blokes in close quarters, she'd tell me. So, did your dad ever find out you were filching his liquor?" The blond nodded, then tilted his head back, humming so low and deep it could have easily been a purr. Bard brushed a strand of pale gold off the other's shoulder before he could stop himself. The cascade of hair spilled down Thranduil's back like sunlight through curtains, and just as warm. The shudder that visibly raced down Thranduil's back tightened the corduroy of his trousers across his lap. How deep could the model's back bend if he wound his fingers through that long hair and _tugged_? The brunet took his hand back before it felt compelled to find out. One never knew who was watching, ready for a bit of gossip. By now, under the scorching scrutiny, he more than wanted to find out.

"He sat me down, served me a glass with a splash of water, taught me to taste it..." Thranduil's voice trailed off, but his eyes did not break from Bard's face, daringly focused on his mouth again. "Then he told me to kindly stay the hell away from his liquor stash." Bard pushed the glass away from his lips and choked out a laugh, hand pressed to his mouth to keep from sputtering. What must have Thranduil's face looked like at that moment? Did he pour a drink into one of his father's tumblers and sipped it, or did he drink from the bottle when no one was looking? What _was_ his father like? The taller man's hand rubbed soothing circles over his back, chuckling mirthfully. His face was so close now, framed by all that golden fall and aglow with the electric brightness of his eyes.  "Are you going to live, or should I start destroying the evidence?" Thranduil teased just before withdrawing his hand from Bard's back, dragging the blunt edge of his nails over the olive colored jumper. 

What a pity it lay between his fingertips and the meat of Bard's broad back.

"I'm afraid I'll live," Bard cleared his throat and winked at the smirking blond, "so put the shovel away, yeah? You still haven't seen the photos, so may have need of me yet."

"Just tell me where you've got them and I'll manage just fine, thanks."

"Oh, I see how it is," the photographer's voice breathed coldly despite the grin tugging at his lips. He leaned away momentarily to reach for the bag under his coat and scarf on the next stool over. Between the rustle of zippers and the brief disappearance of his hands, Bard produced a sleek black tablet, where he'd quickly uploaded a variety of shots from earlier in the day. Thranduil tried to pluck the device from Bard, but the photographer pulled back his hand, leaning out of reach from the taller man -- or as out of reach as he could be when Thranduil's limbs went on pretty much forever and the blond looked every but ready to pounce. "You'll just have to fight me for it, then."

Thranduil called out his room number to the bartender and pushed his empty glass aside, then stood to his full height. "Let's spare the faithful the horror of watching their saint be brutally defeated, shall we?"

Bard was definitely going to have to throw his coat on before he went anywhere or make his erection known to the bar patrons. The unabashed, ready-to-slay look on Thranduil's face only hastened the downward rush of his blood until it left his gut roiling in one continuous lurch of molten fire.

"That's very thoughtful, for a heathen," Bard quipped sarcastically as he gathered his belongings and rose to stand face to face with the blond, who stood a head taller than him, but that didn't detract from the lustful challenge unfolding through his body. Whatever happened next was guaranteed to have nothing to do with the photos, Bard was sure of it. The blond canted his head with the laziness of a cat stretching and shrugged his shoulders, then strode past the flustered brunet in the direction of the elevators. Bard followed after, blood thrumming in his ears and his arousal casually hidden by the coat and scarf he'd folded over his arm and pressed against his middle. The sweaty grip on the tablet tightened as approached the elevator at the end of ambient-lit hallway. Against the cream colored wall, the blond had taken to leaning, arms crossed over his chest and a downright mocking look pursing full lips. The shorter man shoved the tablet back into the bag to keep it from ending up a casualty of the next few minutes.

So much for harmless ogling over drinks. He hadn't even gotten to finish his, but he wasn't about to lament the current turn of events.

"So, what's with you and this sainthood thing, hm?" Away from the comings and goings of the guests in the lobby, Bard crowded Thranduil's space, framing the blond's frame with the palms of his hands pressed firmly against the cold plaster of the wall. Thranduil remained immobile inside the makeshift trap of Bard's arms, save for the vulgar curl of his tongue teasing his bottom lip. Inside his mouth, Bard's own tongue flicked restlessly between the points of his unusually sharp canines. "You don't know know all that much about me, Thranduil, so what makes you think I'm a saint?"

The bastard was wearing Mirkwood again; it was laced into the very scent of his soft hair. Damn him.

"That smile of yours is just so wholesome," the blond breathed against Bard's mouth without letting their lips touch, the only contact a mere graze of their noses that came and went. "And that unwavering patience despite of how many idiots you're surrounded by. It's commendable, truly." 

"So your brilliant plan is to test my patience?" Thranduil's legs parted to accommodate the steady press of Bard's knee between them. Lacking oxygen, Thranduil's lungs were beginning to burn, but he continued to chase the warm oak and apricots lingering in the photographer's breath. The nape of his neck burned under the collar of his shirt, prickling with the first trickles of sweat. The friction of the arousal pressing against his own straining inside his jeans drew a low groan from parted lips. 

The blond was loathe to move, but so open a space screamed bad idea.

"Get in the lift and I'll tell you how I'm going to wreck it," Thranduil hissed against the corner of Bard's mouth, blindly slamming his hand on the call button before pushing off the wall and shoving the brunet inside the mirrored box. It'd been empty and waiting since he'd called it however many minutes ago. In its enclosure, Thranduil felt free to hook his fingers into the waistband of Bard's jeans and tugged him forward hard, welcoming the crash of the other's front against his own. They had only seconds before the doors chimed open again and too many places to touch all at once.

The photographer's breath had caught in his throat when Thranduil had pushed him into the elevator; it remained lodged in his lungs, even after Thranduil had jabbed the button for his floor and the doors were sliding closed. The flush creeping high up on the taller man's cheeks deepened when Bard buried his free hand in Thranduil's hair and forcibly tilted his head back with a firm pull. He swallowed the blond's strangled cry in a crush of mouths. 

Thranduil's mouth was full of Macallan again, full of smoke and fire, but this time the taste chases his tongue, every wet inch of his mouth -- a mouthful of molasses burning under the blaze inside his chest. Both of the blond's hands pushed between their bodies and climbed roughly over the jumper, bunching up the fabric on their upward path until they could make a handhold out of the knitted cap. The cap came away in one hand and remained captive in Thranduil's white-knuckled fist while his other hand mussed through the loose, damp curls of Bard's hair. Drugstore shampoo either smelled better than he could recall, or his senses were too tangled to make sense of what stimuli assaulted them.

Bard broke the messy join of their mouths abruptly, exhaling a rough grunt against Thranduil's throat. "What if I'm a tactician, instead of a saint?" The blond gasped through gritted teeth when Bard's sharp teeth nipped at the column of his neck, just under the corner of his jaw. The edge of pain only worsened the heat firing from synapse to synapse. The shuddering blond strained to retain the meaning of words, but only the filth in the tone registered well enough, and then there was a disorienting tug and a change of light.

Bard was dragging him out of the elevator, jaw set hard and eyes narrowed to a stone grey.

"I'm very good at attrition, Bard. You can't win this." 

Where the hell was his key card? The model hung a hurried left and dug into the pockets of cardigan for the card, knowing Bard wasn't far behind. The light of the card reader on his door blinked red twice and Thranduil cursed, then forced his lungs to expand with a steadying breath. The card slid into the slot and glowed green. Bard's hand closed over his on the door handle and yanked down, then shouldered the door open with a grunt. The harsh push propelled Thranduil forward into a stumble inside the darkened suite, but the man recovered quickly, coming to lean against the arm of a nearby couch. 

Bad's cock twitched painfully in his pants in the seconds his eyes followed Thranduil's hands sliding down the center of his body as they popped open the buttons of the model's cardigan. 

"Attrition can't help you if you get caught in the siege first, luv."

Bard kicked the door shut and plunged the room into darkness. The sound of things thudding against the floor came a heartbeat before the vice grip of hands on his hips did, but this time, he was prepared for the momentum of Bard's body bearing down against his, forcing his legs to step backwards toward the bedroom. Somewhere along the way, Bard's cap and the room key dropped from Thranduil's hands in favor of slipping under the photographer's jumper, eager to feel his skin warm under his fingertips, and hungry to press phantom bruises into the muscles. Pleased with Bard's soft, tortured moan, the blonde latched his mouth onto the man's own, milking growls and pants from slick, chapped lips to feed the red hot coils in his belly. He purred a silky 'yes' between kisses and rolled his hips into Bard's hold, encouraging those groping hands to pull his shirt tail free from his jeans and dig his thumbs into his bare hips. 

The blond could finally mewl his satisfaction and feel the press of those strong hands kneading at the swell of his rear, teasing with a promise to wander lower. 

"Get on the bed." The command vibrated against the hollow of Thranduil's throat, washed away by the questing, savoring laps of the brunet's tongue. 

 The model's hands came to grip Bard's wrists, keeping the other man's hands firmly pressed to his body, leading both their bodies in a reverse tango toward the massive four-poster. The mattress dipped under Thranduil's weight splaying on it, soft and inviting, but the cold duvet elicited a lingering shudder down the length of his back. Reflexively, the taller man drew Bard atop him for the heat the wild-eyed man radiated, nuzzling the warm spot behind his ear with the tip of his nose. The photographer retaliated with a kiss bordering on ferocious in its hunger, fucking iniquitous promises into his mouth with teeth, tongue, and maddening little growls that continued to escape him. Rough fingerpads roamed Thranduil's sides and dipped along the grooves of his spine, tracing ley lines into the flesh.

"God, Bard, yes..."

The burning kiss tapered down to soft, butterfly pecks along the bridge of his nose and the corners of his mouth. Likewise, Bard's hands withdrew from inside the model's shirt and sought the golden spill of the man's hair, gently combing through it. Thranduil whined and bucked his hips into the cradle of Bard's, but the man did not press back. They were both so hard, so close to catching fire... why was he stopping?

"You should sleep, darling. You've had a long day."

"W-what?" Thranduil's brow furrowed, eyes regretfully blinking the glaze of pleasure away. What the bloody hell, Bard... "Ugh, don't tell me you're the martyr type," the blond groaned and banged his head into the mattress frustratedly, irritation quickly rising in the absence of any resolution to his lust. "Don't be so _boring_ , Bard. _Come on_." Thranduil rolled his hips petulantly, seeking friction -- something, anything.

"What's the point of a siege if I just give you what you want?" Bard's dark chuckle spilled against Thranduil's hot cheek, but it left him cold, bereft, adrift. His pulse hammered uncomfortably against his throat, in all the places Bard had dragged teeth and tongue over. "Bard, I swear t--" He found himself cut off by Bard's ruinous kiss again, subduing his mouth into needy, angry mewls. His fists pulled and pushed into the duvet to keep from tossing the man across the room. 

"Before you knock my block off, luv, hear me out, yeah?"

His mouth had no right to melt away the ire, nor his hands the right to rub life back into his flagging erection. Thranduil sighed, tangling fingers in Bard's hair, tugging vindictively at the messy curls until the photographer granted appeasement with his mouth at the crook of the model's neck. "I want you bad enough to rend you in two right now, trust me," Bard nibbled the shell of his ear between labored breaths, hips undulating in a maddening ebb and flow that offered no relief, only torture and more need. "So we've got two options: option one, I stay in this bed with you and we have ourselves a really good night -- I learn things that make you feel really good, I have my way with you a couple of rounds, maybe I hear from you again."

He would not beg for more molten kisses, for the crushing squeeze of those hands on his hips, for the cock he ached to taste, but he _wanted_ to. He just didn't know how. He could understand receiving or taking, but asking... it'd never been an option.

"Or option two," Bard whispered against Thranduil's mouth with a softness the blond couldn't bear without stealing another taste of him. "I get to know you: what you like, what makes you happy, and you get to know me....and when we find ourselves in bed again, I'll take everything you teach me and take you apart with it, until you can't take it anymore..."

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? 

Thranduil buried his face in the crook and viciously nipped at the other man's neck, throwing his arms around Bard's frame to keep him rooted in place while he poured his frustrations and terrified hope into savage kisses. Bard's desperate pleas tucked into rushed utterance of his name soothed the misplaced hurt somewhat, but there was still the matter of his body, still ablaze and starving for friction. "I want you, I swear," Bard groaned, but Thranduil's tongue wiped away entire words from lips. "I wanna know you, Thranduil. I want us both wrecked..."

" _Fuck_ , Bard," Thranduil moaned into the man's ear, slamming his head into the mattress once more. A pained laugh bubbled in his throat despite his best efforts to glare. "You are _wicked_. Go before before I choose option one, then push you off the balcony, you right arse."

Bard's laughter thrumming against his chest shouldn't have felt so good, but there it was, radiating warmth back into the embers. There he went again, with that beatific smile, making it nearly impossible to let him walk away.

"You've a London number."

"Yeah, darling. I'll be back home by Friday." Bard cupped Thranduil's face in both hands, tracing with a thumb the reddened flesh of his lips that parted under the caress. The disgruntled blond suckled at the rough pad with eyes half-shut, hands fisted in Bard's jumper.

"I'm in Thursday. Use the extra day to think about how you're going to make this up to me." 

"Aye, luv," the brunet pressed into Thranduil's mouth once more before reluctantly extricating himself from the splay of limbs on the bed. "Try to get some sleep, yeah? g'night."

"You have some nerve, Bard."

Thranduil remained where he lay until Bard shut the suite door behind himself, already on the phone with the cab service scheduling his pick-up. He recovered his phone from the living room first, then stripped off his clothes and shoes by the foot of the bed and climbed under the covers, half-sulking still, but daring to hope. 

**[Tauriel; 23:59] Not a saint. Think I made a deal with the devil. Not sure if I'm infatuated or if I just want to murder him. Maybe both, but heavy on the second.**

**[to 020-8105-1360; 00:02] I'm vegan. I hate dogs. I'm naked right now. I hope your boner is paining you. I will only drink beer if it's German. I'm holding your cap hostage until you've atoned sufficiently. I'm half-Swedish.**

 He tossed his phone toward his open suitcase and ignored its buzzing. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I don't plan Thranduil's conversations with people before writing them; they get ridiculous despite of my best efforts.  
> 2\. There's a Shakespeare joke in there somewhere. Oops.  
> 3\. I don't know what to say about Bard, other than Thranduil is totally fucked.  
> 4\. Bard in a beanie, tho.  
> 5\. But srsly, let's get back to Bard's beanie.


End file.
